


Patroclus, Shepherd of Apollo

by TheTartWitch



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Canon Divergence, Child Death, Gen, patroclus becomes apollo's shepherd, patroclus doesn't stay in his father's kingdom to wait for the verdict, short ficlet i wrote ages ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25026442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTartWitch/pseuds/TheTartWitch
Summary: written out from really old notes. basically a rewrite of my older version, "The Notes of Patroclus".
Kudos: 21





	Patroclus, Shepherd of Apollo

There was once a crying prince, alone with a handful of dice and a boy’s body by his feet, no longer breathing. This prince exists no longer, but for prudence’s sake we’ll pretend this is his story, alright? Or at least, for as long as we can.

This is not _his_ story, but we shall tell it anyway.

The prince was barely ten, a boy in all rights. He is the son of Menoitius and the queen, but despite his princely title he is not afforded much respect. His father thinks little of him, and truly that is all that matters to the nobles’ sons.

His refusal to give up something that is his has resulted in this: an empty, bloodless corpse and him, gaping and terrified in the face of an accident. He knows what his father will say, and how the nobles will demand payment, and how his mother will not know him to defend him. He sees all this, flashing before his eyes in an instant, and then he is turning and running into the woods and up a mountain trail into the craggy, grassy peaks of the rolling hills behind his father’s palace.

He crawls, exhausted, into a stony cave, the sky alight with the last rays of day. He sleeps fitfully, dreaming of the nobles’ angry cries and his father’s fury when he cannot be found. He dreams of a man, tall and golden with eyes like coal, looking him over with a frown and setting a crook beside him with a small cough.

\--

The morning comes late to the prince-turned-exile. The sun wavers directly overhead as he stumbles out of his stony bed and trips over a long arm of wood, smooth and curling at the top, and his dreams return to him, of a man leaving a shepherd’s crook beside him.

He hefts it uncertainly, not willing to think about who the man was, and walks softly to the opening of the cave, peering out.

He is at the top of a tall, tall hill. Directly below him is a field, lush and full of wildflowers. Brilliant red sheep graze quietly all around him. A forest of thick trunks and sharp leaves rings the bottom of the hill, caging him and the sheep in a fence of which the only gate is the trail, winding down the mountain like Jason’s string. 

He fumbles his way out of the cave and collapses on the steps, sobbing.

Where will he go? Who will he be, if not Prince Patroclus, son of Menoitius? Is he anyone?

A vibrant red sheep snuffles at his hair, recognizing the crook still clenched in his trembling fist. He sniffs and smiles, a hand coming up to rest on the beast’s curving horns.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. And perhaps he could just stay here? Need he be anyone but Patroclus, herder of what are obviously Lord Apollo’s sheep?

\--

Patroclus is now fourteen. Four years of the godly sheep has made him both skilled and horrifically bored, so when an elderly traveller ventures up the trail he is quick to welcome them inside his cave and offer them a few bowls of the simmering broth he always has over his fire.

When he is finished with his meal, he makes an offering of mountain wildflowers and golden berries to the god Apollo as he has always done. He does not attempt to make the traveller do so, however. It is everyone’s own choice whether or not to worship, so while he leaves the offer open he does not push the man.

When night falls, they sleep, but in the morning Patroclus realizes the man has disappeared without a word. He does not see both Zeus and Apollo watching him with interest from Mount Olympus. 

\--

Word has reached him of the Golden Apple and the problems it’s going to cause through Apollo, who seems to find the whole issue humorous -- or he would, if Troy wasn’t about to be sacked for a pretty girl and her foolish abductor. 

“Why didn’t they just share the Apple?” Patroclus asks, stroking a sheep’s ears slowly.

Apollo shrugs. “Women can be jealous of each other more deeply than any man of his fellows,” he says seriously. “I’m going to be gone awhile to assist Troy, so I can’t be protecting you as well. Beware of Thetis; she’s crafty, and her son Achilles is _Aristo Archaeons_. They’ll probably try to use you against me if they find out about you, so be warned. The sheep will guard you.”

A dip of Patroclus’ head and the god is gone. 

Something big is beginning; he can feel it.

\--

“If we are to win this war on Troy, my mother suggests we bring a bit of leverage to make Apollo, the patron of Troy, temper his fire a little.” Achilles said to the gathered assembly. Odysseus nodded. 

“Athena has said the same, though she told me not what the weapon of choice should be.” Odysseus eyed the younger man shrewdly. “Has your mother told you?”

“Yes,” Achilles told him. He stood and addressed the assembly at large. “I shall take a small group of three or four men into the hills to the east. There, on a hill behind the kingdom of Menoitius, is a flock of sheep. Their shepherd is a favorite of Apollo. We shall bring him back with us and use him to win this war!” His eyes are hungry and cold, and when he laughs it is chilling. 

The assembly cheers.

\--

Patroclus’ mountain isn’t overly difficult to find or traverse, and he wonders how Apollo expects him to make this difficult for invaders.

He wonders if the sheep would be of any help. They haven’t attacked any of his travelling guests so far, but he’s noticed there’s always a ‘guard sheep’ posted beside him and by the traveller when they visit. Also, all his guests are either gods or goddesses, so maybe the sheep just don’t like mortals? But he’s a mortal, so that’s not set in stone either he supposes. 

Eventually, he just sits down and tells them. They’re intelligent creatures, they’ll figure it out. If he doesn’t like the visitors, he’s sure they won’t.

But all he has is defense, seeing as he never learned how to fight. If they get through his forest walls and the flock’s protective shield, he’s done for. 

He can only hope the _Aristos Archaeon_ is a merciful man.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> that's all high school me wrote, so please don't ask for updates or anything. 
> 
> on the other hand, if you want to take this idea and run for it, you're welcome to it. I would of course ask for a little crediting but beyond that it's your playground.


End file.
